True Black

There is another place. It is a color, deeply. I call it "home". It is nameless. Words evaporate if they approach it--even in thought. But I'll try to pin enough words down in its periphery, that I may describe at least the wake of it's passing. It is Home. It is without memories yet all memories descend from it. It is not things, in the way that a paintbrush is not a canvas. It is a quiet place, placeless and roaring with an Alive Silence that cannot be grasped and only can be felt by its ripples tearing raw ideas into the fabric of our common time. I call it "Home". It's my True Black hiding behind the nucleic curtain from which springs all light in the darkness.